


The Critic and the Chef

by soyforramen



Category: Archie Comics, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: A tablespoon of misunderstanding, Chef/Critic AU, F/M, a cup of everyone else sees it, a dash of not everyone gets to be the princess when they grow up, a dash of stubbornness, a slice of reformed serpents, and a
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-08-09 03:53:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16442486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soyforramen/pseuds/soyforramen
Summary: When Betty Cooper reviews Pop's, the city's latest happening restaurant, she more than ruffles the feathers of it's head chef, one Jughead Jones.  But an unfortunate incident draws them into each others orbits, and both are forced to realize that first impressions aren't always what they seem.





	1. A Dinner, a Review, and a Reaction

From the outside, Pop’s appeared to be be little more than one more chain restaurant in town already swarming with them. A glowing pink neon sign above the door proudly proclaimed that it served ‘Burgers & Chock’Lit Shakes’, a nod, she assumed, to the nostalgic themes that had been cropping up around the city’s eateries as of late. 

Betty stood on the sidewalk a moment to take it all in. The windows were tinted darkly, a side effect of being housed under some of the largest financiers of the world. A stand outside listed the day’s specials in Old English script, steak and fingerling potatoes along with a catch of the day. The clientele that swarmed past her were the typical middle class millennials, sharply dressed and groomed. 

Once inside she was greeted with a low-lit atmosphere and a decor that evoked something out of a 1960s mob movie. Plush, dark fabrics lined the walls around her, while dark mahogany furniture gave the restaurant an upscale elegance that was often forgone in more modern restaurants. The small, candle-lit lamps gave a sense of intimacy to the booths that lined the walls, and an ornate, understated bouquet of flowers brought a needed touch of color to the entryway.

Overall it appeared to be as classy as a restaurant this popular, and in this price range, should be.

Betty stepped up to the podium and waited for the maitre’d to return. “Reservation for one, under B. Coop,” she said when he returned.

The man looked down at his list and frowned. He flipped a page and ran his finger down the page. 

“Spell that?” She did, and he shook his head. 

“I’m sorry, but there’s no reservation under that name. Are you sure it’s for today?”

“The reservation was confirmed last week.” Betty shifted to try and get a look at the list, but the man closed the book before she could see. “Are you sure it’s not there?”

He smiled, a terse smile that indicated this wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with this sort of situation. Only this time Betty wasn’t a nosy passerby hoping to get a glimpse of the stars that passed through. 

“I’m afraid there’s nothing under that name, or anything close to it. We can seat you at the bar, though, once a spot opens up.”  
Betty bit down her frustration—this was part of the job, after all, taking obstacles as they came—and nodded. After all, Cheryl had this restaurant slated for review for weeks now, and any other restaurant that was on their list to review would be just as filled to capacity at this time of night. 

“The bar’s fine, thank you.” The maitre’d jotted down her name and she sat on one of the plush seats near the front of the restaurants. She shot off a quick text to Cheryl—“No reservation ???”. The text flipped over from blue to green, a sure sign that Cheryl was still roaming Canada in her continued attempts at self-improvement, all without cell service. 

With a sigh, she traded out her phone for the pen and paper that awaited in her purse. ‘Failed to keep reservation; though waiting area v. nice. Clean and comfortable.’ She jotted down a few more notes about the atmosphere that might be useful tomorrow when she went to write. The wait, though, was quick for a city this size on a Thursday night. Inside of fifteen minutes Betty was seated at the far end of the bar with a menu between an elderly couple both on their phones and a much younger couple, both trying to share the same seat, still in the honeymoon phase of their relationship. 

A few minutes after she’d sat down, a surly looking bartender with tattoos that peaked over his turtleneck set a coaster and glass of water in front of her. “Don’t get the steak tonight,” he said, a demand more than a suggestion. Before she could ask why, he’d walked to the other end of the bar.

Betty raised an eyebrow and jotted down another note. ‘Bartender recommends not ordering high priced item? Not a good sign—trouble in the kitchen? Or supply?’ She swapped her notebook with the menu and looked it over. Standard American fare was the majority of it—steak and potatoes, salads and chicken, along with the over the top burger with too many ingredients and not enough substance. Nothing that would recommend it for someone with more exotic fare in mind. 

“Fangs told me what happened tonight, and I can’t apologize enough,” a woman behind her said. Betty turned to find a petite woman with upswept, pink streaked hair. The woman’s smile was bright and she had a pad and pen in hand. 

“This is the first time we’ve lost a reservation. Can I offer you an appetizer for being so patient with us?”

Betty returned her smile and wondered if they’d figured out who she wrote for yet. It wasn’t unusual for her identity to be discovered halfway through an assignment, though normally this didn’t happen until mid-meal when she began asking questions about the food. 

“What would you recommend?’

The woman looked at her a moment, as if deciding something. Then, she pulled the menu towards her.

“If you want something lighter, I’d recommend the Brussel sprouts, fire-roasted with a Worchestire and balsamic reduction. But if you can handle some heat, there’s the spicy-sweet potato fries, dusted with ancho chili powder and pumpkin spice. The chef always recommends off-menu—the pickled herring on a bed of collard greens and feta, but that’s definitely not first date material.” Betty scrunched up her nose at the dish, and the woman laughed. “It’s not for me either. But it’s big with certain foodies. There’s a guy who comes in once a week and orders three every time.”

Betty scanned the appetizers again. “What’s your favorite?”

The waitress winked and slipped the pad and pen into her apron pocket. “Sweet Pea! Get this woman a drink,” she called out before she disappeared towards the kitchen.

The bartender scowled his way towards her. “Let me guess. Red wine? Or gin and tonic?”

Betty bit her lip to keep from smiling. Something about his gruffness was charming despite his attempt at being off-putting. “Whiskey, neat.”

He raised an eyebrow, a shade of irritation slipping away. “What about an Old Fashioned?”

“Only if made properly.”

He grinned as if they’d just shared a secret. “I’ll be back.”

Xxxx

One week later found Betty three pages deep into the final round of edits when the phone on her desk buzzed.

“Delivery for you,” came Ethel’s voice on the other end. There was a pause interrupted by an uncharacteristic giggle. “Your signature is requested.”

Betty sighed and pushed away from her desk. Never one for interruptions when a deadline loomed, she strode into the lobby, determined to get this over with quickly. A man leaned against Ethel’s desk, frustratingly familiar. From his body language it was clear he was interested in the quiet receptionist and, surprisingly, so was Ethel. (Not that Ethel was as prudih as Cheryl claimed, only that this was the first time Betty had seen her openly flirting with anyone.)

“There she is,” Ethel chirped when Betty walked up. “Betty this is—“ she paused, either unable to recall his name or never having caught it in the first place, and the man jumped in with his hand outstretched. 

“Martin Ocampo. But my friends call me Sweet Pea,” he said as Betty shook his hand. With his other hand he held out a bag, heavy and aromatic. Lemongrass, garlic, and the heavy smell of chicken broth, if her nose was correct. “I work at Pop’s.”

Then it clicked. This was the bartender who, despite his surly and off-putting demeanor, had served her one of the best Old Fashioneds she’d ever had the pleasure of tasting. The drink and the appetizer had been the highlight of that night, a grand opening to a much more underwhelming dinner.

“I take it your boss read my review,” she said as she peeked into the bag. 

Somehow this type of bribery had become the normal practice. One bad review, sent early as a courtesy for the restaurant to offer corrections or clarifications, would throw the restaurant into a panic-driven attempt to triage the situation with one more offer of food. It was a desperate attempt to try and change her mind, a push for one more chance, before her review went to print. But this kind of bribery was one Betty could get behind, even though she rarely changed her mind.

Sweet Pea shook his head. “No, actually. I read it. And that’s soup from my grandmother. She read your review before I did and decided you’re the only person with enough sense to come through that restaurant.”

Betty raised her eyebrows at that. “Does she work in the kitchen?”

“Not for Jones. She works at a bodega on the south side. Best ensaymada you’ve ever had in your life. So I figured if I wanted to talk to you, I should try for something better than the boring food Jones’ serves up.”

“Food closer to the heart?”

He nodded. “Something like that. And nothing’s closer to my heart than my lola’s arroz caldo when it’s cold out. That and Jones can’t make soup for shit.”  


Betty set the bag on the counter between them and leaned against it, a mirror image of Sweet Pea. “What exactly are you trying to get out of this Mr. Ocampo? I’ve had numerous chefs try to get me to change a review, but never a bartender. And never a bartender who seems so critical of the head chef’s cooking.”  


Sweet Pea shrugged. “I like my job. Statistically speaking, the restaurants your paper reviews badly are more likely to change their approach. Those that don’t go under. And Jones has been in need of a firm kick in the ass for a while. Maybe this will be his wake-up call.”

Betty tilted her head. Her first impression of this man had so far been entirely wrong, her curiosity about him and that restaurant growing the longer they spoke. “What makes you say that?”

He looked at the floor between them while he weighed his words out. “Have you ever had a friend who loved something and failed at it, again and again? And that failure took all their creativity out of them, so that they were only doing what was expected of them? What was just enough to pay the bills.”

Ethel glanced at Betty to gauge her reaction. Betty refused to meet her eyes; instead she stared blank-faced at Sweet Pea. His words were far more personal to her then he could realize and she set her hand on the still hot bag to ground herself. Her words were clipped as she said, “I have.”

He looked back up at Betty and held her gaze. “Then you’ll know why I’m asking you not to change the review.” Sweet Pea held out a card and Betty took it. It was a date card scheduled for next week, ‘Pop’s Chock’lit Shoppe’ written in a 1950s diner font. “To make up for the lost reservation. On the off chance you’re insane enough to come back.”

In lieu of a goodbye, Sweet Pea gave her a nod and shot Ethel a wink. 

“That was odd,” Betty murmured when Sweet Pea had left the lobby. She turned the card over in her hand as she thought through Sweet Pea’s request.  


“It’s not so bad, you know,” Ethel said behind her. Betty turned and found she’d already returned to her computer, typing away at something. 

“What isn’t?”

Ethel nodded towards the lobby doors where Sweet Pea had stalked off. “Pop’s. They’re big in the local community. I can send you an article about it if you want.”

While community service had always been important to her personally, Betty failed to see how that had anything to do with the food at the restaurant. 

“Doesn’t Kevin have a birthday coming up next week?” Ethel asked sweetly when she realized Betty was hesitant about going back. Betty raised an eyebrow, and Ethel returned her skeptical look with a large, innocent grin, practiced over a number of meetings spent with Cheryl.

There was something coy and devious about that grin, and Betty looked back at the reservation card. The date was, coincidentally enough, Kevin’s birthday.

Xxxx

_In sum, while the plating and presentation are on par with the most exclusive restaurants in the city, if you’re planning for a five-star meal with five-star service I’d skip this one and go to your neighborhood diner instead. The food is under-spiced and under-heated, while the choice of utensils give the food a noticeable tinny taste. While reservations are accepted they are not kept._

_But if you’re out on the town and in the mood for drinks and appetizers, and you have a taste for fine whiskey, Pop’s bar is a must-do on any foodie’s list._

Toni clicked her tongue and set the paper down on the bar in front of her. “He is not going to be happy.”

“He’s never happy,” Sweet Pea said from behind the bar. “And I’ve been telling him for years to add more spice to everything.”

“I don’t know,” Fangs said as he walked up to the bar. He set a crate of glasses down onto the bartop and picked up the paper to read the article again. “B. Coop’s review closed down that hipster tapas place, Mantle the Magnificent’s, before it ever got off the ground.” He looked at Toni who was reading over her shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be prepping?”

“Nothing to prep until we know what we’re serving tonight.”

As if on cue, Jughead strode through the backdoor of the restaurant, a forced, cheery smile on his face. When he drew closer, Toni realized that he was humming something that, on any other day, would indicate that he was in a good mood. Today, though, it was ominous in the same way ‘Stayin’ Alive’ would be when played at a funeral. 

The trio turned to him and watched for his reaction. 

“What?” Jughead asked when he realized they’d been staring at him.

The three glanced at each other, daring each other to say something first. In a non-verbal conversation borne out of years of friendship, hardship, and overall too much togetherness, they argued over who’d be the first to bring up the bad review. Toni raised an eyebrow to remind them she’d been the one to break the news about the broken water heater last month. Sweet Pea scowled and crossed his arms to recall that he’d been the one who’d had to close up the place three weeks in a row. Fangs shifted as he tried to recall something he’d been stuck with, but he had nothing. 

With a sigh he picked up the paper and dropped it on the bar in front of Jughead. “We read the review.”

Instead of acknowledging it, Jughead waved off their concern with a forced laugh. “That? Who cares about that? It’s just one person’s opinion. There are plenty more people saying just the opposite. The Shriek reviews haven’t changed. We’re fine.”

Toni pursed her lips and turned away, a sure sign she was holding her tongue. Behind the bar, Sweet Pea scoffed and muttered something about cleaning the tap lines, his go-to assignment when he wanted to avoid everyone.

Fangs stepped towards Jughead, hand outstretched. “If you want to talk about it -“

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Jughead snapped. He caught himself and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s just one person’s opinion. We’ll be fine.” He stalked off to the kitchen before anyone could argue.

Fangs mouthed ‘good luck’ at Toni and went back to the front of the restaurant to set up for the night.

Toni groaned and followed Jughead to the back of the restaurant. He was going to be a bear tonight, and she’d have to be the one to deal with it as head waitress. “It’s not going away,” she told him when she shoved through the double doors. 

He didn’t acknowledge her, putting all of his focus instead into washing his hands rather than having a difficult conversation. If he was going to act like that, fine. She was just as good at ignoring the rattlesnake in the corner as he was. She stepped up to the tap when he was finished and began to scrub her hands. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as he stormed his way around the kitchen only to end up in the walk-in freezer.

“What are we serving tonight, Jones?” Toni asked when she turned off the tap. 

“I haven’t decided,” he called out. “Apparently I have to rethink my entire approach to cooking because overpowering natural flavors with unnecessary spice is the in thing now.”

Toni rolled her eyes as she dried off her hands. “Thought you said the review didn’t bother you.”

The freezer door slammed shut, and Jughead lifted one hand in the air to point a lobster at her. “It doesn’t.” He threw the lobster onto the stainless steel table and went back into the freezer.

“Uh-huh.” Toni leaned her hip against the prep table and stared at the lobster. It stared back with blank, beady eyes. She felt an odd jealousy for the creature. After all, it was going to get out of this night a lot quicker than she was. “So, lobster tonight?”

xxxxx

As they were seated, Betty bit down a laugh. Kevin looked wide-eyed around the restaurant, so sure that he’d see one of the local celebrities that were rumored to pop into Pop’s. 

“You said it was something straight out of a mob movie, but I didn’t think you meant from James Cagney’s time. Now I’m waiting for the Poutine crime syndicate to walk through the door and demand a table in the back.”

That drew the laugh out of Betty, and she settled more comfortably in her seat. A return to a restaurant this soon after a recently released negative review was almost unheard of, especially when one considered the rumors of culinary retaliation that swarmed the internet. 

“The atmosphere is really a nice touch, if a bit heavy-handed.”

Kevin sipped at his water, his gaze never still as his eyes jumped from patron to patron. “Is that A.A. Andrews over there?”

“Who?” Betty turned to look, but Kevin hissed and grabbed her hand. 

“Don’t look,” he whispered. He glanced over her shoulder and stared at the bar. “He’s the latest ThouConduit star. Moose thinks he’s going to get a recording contract with the Pussycat label next month.”

“Why would Moose—”

“Ms. Coop and Sir,” the pink-haired woman from before interrupted them with a smile to set an appetizer on the table between them. Jumbo shrimp stuffed with cilantro and chili. Betty had gushed about them to the waitress and had gone so far as to try and convince the waitress to give her the secret to the stuffing.

“An appetizer on the house for our birthday dinner tonight. My name is Toni and I will be your waitress tonight. Do you have any questions?”  
Kevin leaned to the side and set his hand on Toni’s arm. With the other he pointed towards the bar. “Is that A.A. Andrews over at the bar?” 

Toni gave him an amused smile. “I have no idea who that is.”

“Yes, please tell us about the special,” Betty said, quick to interrupt Kevin’s star-struck attempts at undercover work. When Kevin wouldn’t look at her, Betty gave him a light kick under the table. Kevin yelped, then scowled at her as he rubbed his ankle.

Toni’s smile went crooked as she watched them with growing amusement. “Tonight we’ve prepared a lobster arugula pasta tossed with a light tomato bisque. That comes with a side Caprese salad with our house balsamic reduction. We also have a catch of the day, market price, filleted and battered with egg white and jasmine rice flour. That comes with a light lemon vinaigrette and fingerling potatoes.”

Midway through the specials, Kevin lifted his menu to hide his face from Toni to mouth something that looked like ‘Beer-won Nick Ah Lod-guh’ at Betty. Too embarrassed to try and figure out who, exactly, Kevin had spotted, Betty took the menu from Kevin and handed both to the waitress.

“Two specials, coming up,” Toni chirped.

Xxxx

Mid-way through the night and only five kitchen crises in, Fangs burst into the kitchen and dodged between the various sous chefs. He slid to a stop at the end of the prep table, his breath coming in gasps. “The blonde’s back.”

Slash glanced up from plating a handful of cherry tomatoes on a house salad. Jughead never looked up from plating a pair of chicken fried steaks, so Slash asked, “What blonde?”

Fangs grimaced. “The one from last week. The one who reviewed us so badly.”

His attention caught, Jughead glanced up with a scowl. “And?”

“And,” Fangs drew the word out as if he were talking to a child, “this is another shot to change her mind about your cooking.”

Jughead scoffed and set the two plates in front of Fangs. “One, she’s not going to re-review us this soon. And two, why should I care whether or not she changes her mind? The food I prepare is what she’ll get. I’m not changing what I do because of one person’s opinion.”

Fangs rolled his eyes and leaned against the table. “At least think about it, J. It’s not just your ego that will suffer because of that review. How many people who work here won’t be able to find other work if we close?” 

Across from them, Slash raised his hand. 

“Man’s got a point,” Toni said as she walked through the kitchen. “And you’re in luck. She’s ordered the lobster macaroni, something you can’t mess up.”  
Jughead stilled as he thought it through. For a moment, Toni doubted they’d gotten through to his thick skull. 

“Fine,” he said. “If she wants flavor, I’ll give her flavor,” and he got to work.

xxxx

“Don’t you think that’s enough paprika?” Toni asked when he was almost done.

Across from her, Jughead added another shake of the spice to the mixed and continued to stir. 

“I don’t know, is it?” he asked, his tone surly and petulant. As much as he proclaimed the review didn’t bother him, those working in the kitchen that night easily saw through Jughead. He’d never taken criticism well, especially when it was something he already knew. Still not finished, he threw in another large serving of mayonnaise into the bowl.

When he was satisfied with the mixture, Jughead turned and plated the dish. For a final flourish he he added a sprig of parsley, a stem of cilantro, and a bunch of lavender he’d pulled from somewhere in his apron pocket. For the first time that night he held Toni’s gaze. 

“Too much?”

She nodded, amused at his childish attempts to go overboard and frustrated with his inability to let go of something so simple as a critique of his skills. A fully justified critique, if she were honest. 

“Where did you even get the lavender this time of year?”

He ignored her, again, and picked up the plates to serve them. Toni panicked. Even if it was a joke, there was no way Jughead could serve anyone that monstrosity of a dish. Quickly, she threw two more servings of the pasta, sans the excess paprika, mayonnaise, and garnishments, into two more bowls and ran out after him.

Already on the other side of the restaurant, Jughead set the two bowls in front of the blonde and her male companion. Toni made it to the table just as he said, “Bon appetit,” with a wicked smile. Jughead gave them a deep bow. His mood greatly improved, he whistled all the way to the kitchen.

The pair looked down at their food, a bowl of gooey macaroni with unidentifiable white meat (thanks to the last minute addition of mayonnaise), all mixed in with enough of the red spice to turn the entire thing an off-putting pink. They looked at each other in shook.

As soon as she got to the table, Toni switched the bowls Jughead had left with her own. “So sorry about that,” she said with a forced laugh. “The chef’s version of a little joke is all.” 

She apologized again and stormed back to the kitchen with the two bowls of ruined food. The thought of throwing the bowls at the back of his head passed through her mind, but it was only through sheer force of will that she quenched that thought. Instead, she dumped the mess into the trash. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Toni asked in a low hiss. 

Jughead had the audacity to look confused at her question, his eyebrows knitted together, a scowl set under them. 

“With me? I’m not the one who shows up after ripping a restaurant to shreds. What, did she expect me to grovel at her feet and beg her forgiveness? Because I’ve worked too damn hard to have one person rip everything out from under me,” he snapped.

“That doesn’t mean you get to be a colossal ass,” Toni snapped back. She crossed her arms to keep from hitting him. “Sweet Pea asked her to come back last week after he got the early review.”

For the first time in a long time, Jughead was struck speechless. The cleaver in his hand dangled precariously over a slice of very expensive meat, and Toni half-hoped the knife would land handle first on his foot. 

“He did?”

Toni nodded. “Yes. And for some reason she came back.” Her better nature won out, and she took the knife out of his hand and set it on the counter. “So maybe you should suck it up, go out there, and be nice for the first time in your life.”

It must have finally hit him what he’d done. Jughead groaned in frustration and buried his face in his hands. “I’m fucking things up again.”

Toni nodded and tugged on his hands. He let her pull his hands away, and she waited until he looked her in the eye. “You are. But luckily for you, it can still be unfucked.” With a gentle push she guided him towards the door. 

A sudden crash out in the restaurant interrupted Jughead’s small moment of growth. They glanced at each other and both ran to the door. Along the edge of the room diners craned their necks to get a better view, while in the middle of the restaurant a crowd stood in a tight group. They rushed over and found the blonde women sitting on the ground, one of Fangs’ stashed Epi-Pens in her thigh. Next to her, the man she’d come with was on the phone, his voice frantic and rushed.

“What did you do, Jug?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “I swear, I only put more paprika in the food.”

Xxxxx

“You have a guest who’s been waiting a while, hun. Do you want me to bring him back?” the ER nurse asked.

Betty’s brow furrowed in confusion. Kevin was in the room with her, he’d refused to leave her alone since the restaurant, and she didn’t know any other man who would care that she was stuck in the ER. 

“He’s quite worried about you,” the nurse said as she sensed Betty’s confusion. “He’s been here almost since you checked in.”

Betty glanced at Kevin. He shrugged, just as confused as she was. 

“Please,” she said. Perhaps it was Sweet Pea, on one more crusade to save his restaurant’s reputation? He didn’t seem the type to go this far out of his way for a practical stranger.

A few minutes later the nurse reappeared with the chef from the restaurant, the one who’d tried to serve them what looked to be a child’s first attempt at cooking. A sad, partially deflated balloon proclaiming ‘It’s a Boy!’ trailed in after him. Betty blinked a few times, unsure of why he was even there. She and Kevin stared at the balloon that floated just above his shoulder. 

The man’s cheeks colored and he cleared his throat. “It was all they had left at the gift shop.”

Kevin leaned towards her, and in a stage whisper said, “He’s here to finish the job.”

The dark-haired man frowned. “I was worried.” 

Betty lifted her chin. “I wasn’t planning on suing if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “No, that’s not what—” he sighed and glanced about the bare room, his gaze wandered to everything but her. “I meant that I was worried about how you were. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to you. Especially not,” he gestured around the room, “this. Yeah, you didn’t like my food and you told most of the city, but that’s not the first time someone didn’t like my cooking.”

Betty was surprised at how concerned he appeared to be. It was a far cry from the smug smile he’d given her at the table. The man in front of her seemed to be normal. Decent even. “It’s probably not your fault. The doctor thinks it might have been an allergic reaction of some kind. They’re going to send off my blood for a test in the morning.”

“That’s what Fangs thought,” he mumbled. He shoved his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a paper. “Here’s everything I put into your food.” He held the paper out to her and she took it. 

“Four tablespoons of paprika?” she asked when she looked at it. 

He shoved his hands into his pockets. The balloon bounced along behind him with the movement. “You said the food was 'under spiced and lacked flavor.'”

“That wasn’t—” She sneezed suddenly and reached for a tissue. The blanket she’d draped around her slipped. The cold air hit her arms and caused her whole body to shiver violently. Betty pulled her arms back under the thin blanket as quickly as she could. Kevin reached over and handed her a tissue, still staring at the man.

The chef shrugged off his leather jacket and draped it across her as best he could without moving closer to her. The jacket lay crooked across her, but she was touched, and warmed, by the offer. 

“I don’t know why they keep it so cold in hospitals,” he muttered to himself. 

“Something to do with germs probably,” Kevin said.

The silence stretched in the room. Betty tugged the jacket up to her chin. The movement brought with it the smell of a kitchen—onions, peppers, and baked bread. It was a familiar comfort, the smell of childhood nostalgia and homecoming.

“I’d better get back to the restaurant,” the man said suddenly. He didn’t wait for Betty or Kevin to say anything and was gone as quickly as he’d appeared.

Kevin raised an eyebrow and grinned at her. “Murderous, tall, dark and handsome? Sounds like someone has a secret admirer.”

Betty threw a pillow at him and laughed.


	2. A Jacket, a Mistake, and a Garage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Jacket, a Mistake, and a Garage. Or bagels and lox, stir-fried chicken, coffee and kolaches.

The black leather jacket had hung on the back of Betty’s office door for three weeks now. It was a reminder that despite her harsh, truthful, highly public opinion about the quality of the food at Pop’s, the staff itself had been nothing but kind of her after publication. And that was a rare thing.

The statistics Sweet Pea had thrown at her weren’t surprising, but she’d never had anyone crunch the numbers before. Not even Cheryl had cared enough about the effects of their articles. Unless it dealt with how many papers were sold on a given day, statistics and numbers meant little to her or the rest of the staff. But for Betty, that sort of power was unnerving. Especially if it meant failure for so many hardworking people.

Even thinking about going back to the restaurant gave her a mild sense of panic. Because whatever his faults in the kitchen, the man had done her a kindness at the hospital. A small one, considering he’d been the one who’d inadvertently put her in the hospital, but a kindness none the less. While she could ignore the situation entirely or write it off as a fair exchange, the better part of her that had been raised with the Cooper manners and the Cooper expectations knew that she had to return the jacket.

It was, after all, a very nice jacket despite the odd snake that had been embroidered into the right cuff.

Knowing what she had to do, Betty stood and made her way to Ethyl’s desk.

“You don’t happen to have Sweet Pea’s number do you?”

It was a shot in the dark as Ethyl didn’t really make bold moves with men, but she was very good at her job despite Cheryl’s constant complaints about her fashion sense. It was a fight Betty had with her cousin on multiple occasions as _The Register_ was known for it’s event coverage and food reviews, not for the fashion sense of the staff. 

“Actually, I do.” 

Ethyl pulled out her personal phone, its case covered in polka dots and bows. She tapped on the screen a moment and Betty’s phone, tucked into her back pocket, chimed almost immediately. 

“He came by to tell me about the food festival they’re working this weekend. He and Fangs have a booth there every year,” Ethyl said by way of explanation. There was a light blush on her cheeks as she talked.

Betty wondered who Fangs was, who any of these people with such odd nicknames were. But if Ethyl wanted her to know, Ethyl would tell her on her own time. That had always been her way, even when things were simpler between them. 

“It sounds like a lot of fun,” Betty said. She glanced at the number on her phone screen. The area code wasn’t from the city proper, but most people’s weren’t now that the city had tripled in size. 

“Let me know if you want to go,” Ethyl said, her eyes taking on an excitement that had been absent for some time. 

Betty promised her she’d think about, and returned to her office. For the rest of the day, Betty pulled up the text from Ethyl and tried to figure out what to say. Uncertainty about the unknown was nothing new for her, especially when it came to strangers or those she hadn’t had a chance to get to know. That was one reason why she’d been so happy Cheryl had agreed to buy Polly’s half of _The Register_ when things had gone south with her father. For Cheryl, it was the familiar, those close to her heart that gave her pause. 

Because of their differing dynamics, Betty’s love of the familiar, Cheryl’s love of the new and unknown, their local newspaper had flourished in an industry that was consolidating in an attempt to stave off extinction. At first derided as nothing more than another paper courting millenials who had too much free time and not enough money, the paper had quickly developed into the go-to for anyone wanting to see more of the city than their own neighborhood. It was something Betty had been proud to be a part of despite journalism not being her lifelong passion.

Returning the jacket, though, was something Betty alone had to do. She didn’t call that day despite her phone patiently waiting for her, nor did she call the next day. But that Thursday she set out to finish the tasks she’d been avoiding all week. Armed with a cup of coffee and bagel and lox from Dilton’s, the best bakery this side of town despite the oddity of the early morning staff, Betty finally set about writing the short message she’d been studiously avoiding. On the fourth rewrite she was satisfied enough to hit ‘Send.’

_‘This is B Coop. With The Register. I’ve got your chef’s jacket and would like to return it to him. When is a good time to drop it off?’_

With that scratched off her list, Betty set the phone aside and smeared more cream cheese across the bread and savored the flavors. The secret to any bread, she’d determined long ago, was the starter yeast. It was something to be cherished, often more valuable than gold. Dilton’s claim to fame was their starter yeast that was rumored to harken back to biblical times. The rumor, started and propagated by Dilton himself, was nothing more than lore that added spice and color to the restaurant. Whether or not it was true, this was still one of Betty’s favorite morning haunts.

While the city hustled and bustled outside, she opened her laptop to begin reworking Trula’s latest article. Before the computer finished booting, Betty’s phone dinged with a reply text. 

_‘J has class in afternoon swing by pops round 3.’_

Trula’s article was forgotten as Betty puzzled over the text. In her research about the restaurant she hadn’t seen anything about classes being offered at the restaurant, and the Chef, one F.P. Jones according to the website, didn’t seem the type to have the patience needed to teach a class. In her experience chefs like him, ones who took criticism as a personal attack, tended to be loner’s devoured by their obsessive need to get the correct flavor combinations. They were often consumed by the need to find the perfect texture, the picture-perfect presentation. All of their focus and energy was spent on their own cooking and little was left to be able to communicate what it was that made their dishes unique and flavorful.

Still. Sweet Pea had given her the information she needed and timely enough that she could get it over with. Just like a bandaid. Go in, drop the jacket off, and leave without being seen. Easy enough.

Later that day, after an overly long meeting with the graphics department, coffee spilt on the layouts, and four fires in the office to put out (one being a literal fire), Betty made her way to the south-side of the city. Pop’s was a short walk from the bus stop. Easy enough despite almost forgetting the jacket on the bus.

As the neon light’s of Pop’s came into view, Betty took a deep breath. Nerves getting the better of her, she smoothed her hair down before she tugged at the front door. Locked. Before she could convince herself that she’d tried, and really that’s all that really mattered, she checked her phone again. 

_‘go around back front’ll be locked’_

Betty did as instructed and slipped down the alleyway on the side of the building. It wasn’t difficult to find as the door had been propped open with an obscenely large can of tomatoes. Industrial sized, even.

During the day the restaurant took on a softer look. Betty was struck that the room was part of a restaurant. It felt more like an old bookstore or library, quiet, well-lit, and inviting. The chairs were resting atop the tables, while pepper and salt shakers stood on guard at the bar. It looked nothing like the swank restaurant she’d eaten at. In the afternoon light it took on the tone of a family owned restaurant still aloft against the chains surrounding it. 

Voices and laughter filtered towards her from the kitchen. Ever curious, Betty made her way through the double doors into the kitchen. Various teenagers were scattered throughout. Their uniform was similar to what Sweet Pea had worn to her office, flannel and denim jackets over worn print t-shirts, heavy boots, and jeans of every kind imaginable. At the far side stood the chef himself. 

Betty took a spot against the wall and watched as he sharpened a knife. He explained what he was doing and why. After a demonstration, he handed the knife and sharpener off to one of the teenagers on his left and had them try. When he was satisfied, he took the knife back and sliced through an onion. At each stage he explained what he was doing, then had a different teen repeat his actions. At the end of it, he had demonstrated how to cook an entire meal and had shared his own experiences, and disasters, in learning how to cook.

For Betty it was a new experience to see this many attentive teens anywhere. There were a few who checked their phones, but on the whole there were more watching him in rapt attention or taking notes on their phones. All in all, he’d shown them simple enough steps, ones that Betty had been fortunate enough to have learned at an early age. But for these teenagers, it was a new experience and one they seemed grateful for.

The teens hadn’t been hesitant in asking questions, familiar enough with him to challenge him on certain points. And he’d met their challenges with the information and the experience he’d gained. Betty hadn’t meant to stay this long, but she was happy that she had. 

Now that the demonstration was over, the teens split into two groups, half moving towards the prep stations, the other half moving towards the stoves. The chef and another older man watched as the teens began to work together to recreate what he’d just shown them. As he watched, F.P. Jones’ eye caught hers and Betty waved. Despite his surprised look, the man didn’t seem to have any ill-feelings towards her.

Now was as good a time as any, she supposed. Bolstered by his neutral attitude, Betty made her way towards him.

“Betty Cooper, from -“

“ _The Register_ , right. I guess we didn’t formally introduce ourselves.” He held out his hand and Betty shook it. “Jughead Jones. Nice to finally meet you. Again.”

Betty smiled and held up the jacket. “I thought you might want this back. And thank you, for offering it to me.”

He took it from her as if surprised she’d taken the time to bring it back. “Thanks for bringing it back. I wasn’t sure if -“ Jughead broke off, though Betty knew where his line of thinking was headed. “Are you better? After the other night?”

She nodded and folded her arms across her chest. “I am. Turns out I’m allergic to paprika of all things. According to the allergist, you can develop an allergy to spices.” 

He was quiet as he watched his students eagerly decimate what once was an onion. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t realize -“

“I didn’t either,” Betty said quickly. “But from what I’ve read it’s not terribly uncommon with how they make lotions and cosmetics.”

“Still.” Jughead ran a hand through his hair. “Tony, watch your fingers. I don’t want to call the EMS again.” He shook his head and turned back to her. “I really am sorry about that.”

Betty watched the teens work as a unit, moving food from station to station and working together. It was impressive. She’d seen fully staffed kitchens that couldn’t work together as well as the teens in front of her. 

“How long have you been working with these guys?”

Jughead shrugged and crossed his arms. “Long enough that Hildabrant should know not to wear scarves around an open flame,” he said loudly. The teen in question blushed and stepped away from the stove. Another teen eagerly took her place to try to flip the vegetables in the pan. Half of the contents scattered on the floor, but she seemed happy enough with the results. “Mustang suggested it when he couldn’t find an affordable after-school program. How did you find out about it?”

“Sweet Pea.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered under his breath. 

“This is really impressive. If I’d known about this, I wouldn’t have written -“

“Roach, what did I tell you about goofing around with knives,” Jughead barked. He stalked towards a thin boy, leaving Betty alone at the doors. 

Taking that as her cue, Betty made her way out of the restaurant and back to the office.

Xxxxx 

As Betty walked into the lobby the following morning, Cheryl was barking out orders to Ethyl while typing away on her phone.

“There you are dear cousin,” Cheryl said as Betty approached. Cheryl’s eyes never lifted from the phone in front of her and her fingers went a mile a minute as she tapped on the screen. “I hear you had a bit of excitement while I was away.”

Betty snorted. Ethyl held out a stack of papers and Betty took them with a nod of thanks. “When did getting sent to the ER turn into ‘a bit of excitement.’”

Cheryl rolled her eyes and flicked her hair over her shoulder. She shoved her phone into her purse and picked up her own stack of papers. “I was being facetious. Ethyl filled me in on all the gory details, including the fact that you went back to that restaurant after the review was published. I’ve already contacted our lawyers and -“

Betty held up a hand, desperate to keep Cheryl from going into mother bear mode. This wasn’t the first time Cheryl had jumped to litigation to solve a minor inconvenience. When it came to those closest to her, Cheryl had a tendency to go straight out of the gate to full bulldog on something that shouldn’t warrant a second thought. Now there were certain places Betty was embarrassed to show her face, though the only one she regretted was the loss of the only place in the city that made the best paella in the world.

“No lawyers, Cheryl. I appreciate the sentiment, but it wasn’t their fault. Even I didn’t know I was allergic.”

Cheryl pouted and crossed her arms. Sometimes Betty thought she thrived on unnecessary conflict. Other times she was just happy to be out of Cheryl’s line of sight. 

“I’m just trying to look out for you and the rest of this city, baby cousin. Any restaurant that doesn’t have all ingredients prominently posted has no right to be in business in this city. Allergic reactions are on the rise in this country, and not every restaurant has the foresight to stock Epi-Pens, nor do most care to foot the cost for them.”

Betty raised an eyebrow, impressed at Cheryl’s newfound knowledge. “Have you been researching.”

“It was a long flight,” Cheryl said. She walked off to her office, and Betty followed after her.

Despite being a partner in the newspaper, in reality Betty was only a partner in name. She had a lot of leeway and a lot of pull at what went on at the paper, but as Cheryl had the majority share of the company it was hers to do with as she pleased. Her father hadn’t been happy about the way his grandfather had doled out shares, but after what had happened it was almost as if Great-Grandaddy Blossom had the same prescient streak that Cheryl claimed she had.

“Anything to report?” Cheryl asked when they were behind closed doors. She threw the stack of papers onto her desk and slid into her faux leather chair.

Betty hovered near the door, ready to get back to her own mountain of paperwork. “The last issue went rather on the exclusive Moose Mason interview, especially now that the Bulldogs are gearing up for play-offs. And the food and life section pulled in the most attention online. That chain out of Vancouver, Weatherbee’s, wants to buy three months of online ads.”

“Speaking of food and life, are we sure the incident wasn’t in retaliation for that scathing review you wrote last month?” Cheryl’s eyes were focused on her computer screen, but Betty knew from experience she was entirely present for the conversation. Many an intern had made the mistake of thinking that Cheryl not responding meant she wasn’t paying attention, and many an intern had disappeared without so much as a peep.

“I’m sure it wasn’t. There was no way they’d know of an allergy that I didn’t,” Betty said. “Dilton wants to go over rates so he can try and talk Weatherbee’s into a package deal, though you might want to nix any ads he tries to put in the physical paper from Curdle’s. They sent two people to the mortuary last week. And if you it’s alright with you I’m going to put Ginger in charge of making and confirming restaurants. I don’t want to end up with a lost reservation again after what happened at Pop’s the first time.”

Cheryl turned to her with a frown. “You made a reservation at Pop’s? Why?”

Betty took one deep breath through her nose, then another. It never did anyone good to lose one’s temper around Cheryl. “I didn’t, Cheryl. You were supposed to make the reservation. At last months meeting, when we were going over restaurants we wanted to cover, you offered to make it.” 

Cheryl scoffed and pulled an emery board out of her desk. “Obviously I didn’t make that reservation.”

“You said you did. We put it in the meeting notes that we’re supposed to review at the beginning of each week,” Betty said through gritted teeth. A flash of guilt rang through her now that she knew the reservation hadn’t ever been made in the first place, but that was quickly overcome with her irritation with her cousin. Cheryl knew how to run a company and, arguably, how to manage people. But when it came to the day to day realities? Not so much.

“Please, like I look at those. Besides, did you really want to eat at a place called Pop’s?” Cheryl ran the emery board over her nails and the sound of it made Betty want to crawl up a wall. “Besides, I’d never dream of sending anyone to a place bankrolled by Veronica Lodge. Who knows what kind of mob money is laundered through there? And if they found out you were working for me that vixen would probably poison you just to get back at me.”

Betty did her best to keep from bringing up where, exactly, the Blossom family fortune had originally come from. Despite Blossom Maple Farm’s press release, the family had not been immigrant farmers who came to America for a better life. Bringing up the real truth was almost as bad as bringing up the history of bootlegging at a Kennedy family reunion. Worse, really, if you totaled up all of the various Blossom’s misdeeds to rise to the top of the mountain.

“Regardless of who owns it or what connections it may or may not have, I did want to eat there. Because it’s my job to cover the most popular restaurants in the city.

“Our job, Betty dearest,” Cheryl said in the sickly-sweet voice she used to smooth things over. “And you forget Veronica Lodge and I shared an apartment during college. I know just how conniving she can be.”

“You said you’d make the reservation, and you told me you’d confirmed it before you left for Canada.”

Cheryl raised an eyebrow with no sign of contriteness anywhere on her face. “Oops. I guess you’ll just have to write me up. Now shoo, I’ve got oodles to do. Unless you want to bring in HR to help handle this work dispute?”

Betty grimaced. Ben Button wasn’t the worst employee they had, but there was something off putting about him. His gaze was a little too unfocused and his words always sounded ominous, even when he was just letting you know there were donuts in the kitchen. If he hadn’t been so good at his job, largely because his name alone was enough to settle small conflicts, Betty and Cheryl both would have fired him and his obsession with some fictional Gargoyle King long ago.

“Pass. I’ll make sure Trula has the final boards on your desk by this afternoon,” Betty said before she retreated to the sanctity of her office.

Xxxx 

The roar of a motor cycle engine idling up to the garage wasn’t out of place on a Saturday morning. Tom’s Mechanics seemed to draw the older crowd who consisted primarily of weekend riders. On the whole they tended to be early risers with hardly any clue how to change their oil. So Betty didn’t bother coming out from under the old Hyundai she was working on. At this hour it tended to be regulars anyways, and they knew enough to look for her old Keds sticking out from under a car. 

“Tom? You here today?” 

The voice was familiar enough to catch her attention, but try as she might, Betty couldn’t place it. She knew it wasn’t Kevin on a number of levels, the primary one being he never woke up before eleven on the weekends if he could help it. Years of working in customer service kicked in and Betty rolled out from under the car and sat up to find Jughead Jones standing at the open bay door. His surprise seemed to mirror her’s. 

“You’re definitely not Tom,” he muttered. He stepped out of the shop and glanced up at the front of the building as if to check the store front sign.

“Tom had a few errands to run this morning.” Betty fidgeted with the lug wrench in her hand. “Can I help you with anything?”

He shifted, and she realized he’d brought two coffees and a deli bag. “You work here?” 

She nodded. “On the weekends if it’s busy, or when Sher- Tom can’t open.” His ‘Tom’ would always be her Sheriff Keller despite his forced retirement ten years ago.   
Some things were too hard to shake. “You can set those down on the cabinet over there while you wait.” 

“He said to come by when I got the chance,” Jughead said as he walked over to where she’d pointed. He set his Didn’t expect to find you here though.”

Betty pursed her lips, wary of his reaction. Most men who came in overlooked her abilities and demanded to talk to the man in charge. Thankfully it was mostly the older men, but every now and then the occasional younger lunkhead trotted through. 

“Didn’t expect to see you either,” Betty returned. She rolled back under the car to keep at the stubborn bolt that refused to budge. “There’s coffee in the office if you want to wait.”

“Thanks, but I brought my own,” he said, missing her suggestion entirely. 

Despite her restricted view, she watched as his feet shuffled around the bay door. If she didn’t know any better she would have said he was uncertain about her presence. Eventually he chose a wall to lean against. Betty wished and dreaded that Tom would come back soon. Nerves slid up her arms at Jughead’s presence. Despite their rocky start she was curious about him but also entirely out of her comfort zone when it came to actually talking.

In the quiet garage she could pretend he wasn’t there and instead focus on the task at hand. With one last final push, the bolt came lose above her, and she slid the oil pan into a better position to catch the thick black liquid.

“How’d you get into car repair?” Jughead asked. His voice was loud in the garage, masking the sound of the city waking up behind them. “Most people I know don’t even know how to change out their wiper blades.”

Betty winced, glad to have the car blocking her from view. The question still stung after all these years. Cars had been the one thing she’d refused to let her father ruin for her, and that resolve had only come after years of therapy. It was a topic she loved to avoid, instead letting her skill and knowledge tell it’s own story. 

“My father and I worked on cars growing up.” 

The words were heavy and rusted in her mouth. She hadn’t talked about him in years, hadn’t really thought about him in weeks. Betty focused on the dripping oil, childhood memories of early Saturdays spent rebuilding engines and memorizing endless lists of facts from Haynes Repair Manuals lapping at the edge of her consciousness. Her father was never a subject she wanted to talk about, and thanks to years of practice she’d become adept at changing the subject away from herself.

“How’d you get into cooking?” 

There was a pause. His shoes scuffled off to find another wall to hold up. The rush of oil above her had trickled down into a stream. It wasn’t until the oil was falling in slow droplets that he answered.

“A friend though it would be a better way of dealing with my life than what I’d chosen.”

Betty screwed the nut back onto the oil pan and grabbed the oil pan as she slid out from under the car. Jughead was staring out at the alley in front of them, his face trapped somewhere in his own past. He had a nice profile, she decided. 

“Was it? A good idea?”

His lips quirked up into something that wasn’t happy enough to be a smile. “Yeah. It really was.”

“Your friend must be proud that you’re so successful,” Betty said. She stood up and walked to the bench where three bottles of new oil waited for her. She picked one up and returned to the car.

“He was.” 

Jughead’s face had fallen and he stared hard at the coffee cup in his hand. Betty unscrewed the cap as she watched him. She had a feeling she was close to some unspoken boundary, but she pressed on with her questioning. She was too curious about him to stop, and too unfamiliar to know when to. “Did you lose touch with him?”

“Kind of. I hear from him every now and then, but he’s had a rough go of it the past few years.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He shrugged and pushed off the wall. “Shit happens. Sometimes I wonder if he knew how much he helped me.” Jughead spoke softly, and Betty wondered if those words were for her. 

They fell silent as she filled the oil tank on the car. It was nice, in a way, to be able to enjoy the quiet of the early morning with someone else. Nice to not have to force a conversation. A million questions flitted through her mind about him, and she ignored each question, not wanting to disrupt this feeling of calm. One question, though, refused to be ignored.

It wasn’t until after she’d closed the hood of the car that she spoke again. Jughead started at the sound, as if he’d forgotten she was there.

“Ethyl said Fangs and Sweet Pea are running a booth at the festival today?” she asked.

He nodded and brought the paper cup to his lips. Betty waited for him to say something about it, but he didn’t offer any other information. She wondered if he was naturally this closed off, or if she was projecting her own trust issues onto him. Or maybe he really was carrying a kernel of resentment for her review.

“What are they serving?” she asked. 

Jughead shrugged and walked to the far side of the garage. He tossed his cup into the trashcan and shoved his hands into his pockets. “They haven’t told me yet. Which means it’s either eggs or empanadas.” As he walked backed, Betty heard him muttered, “I hate making eggrolls.”

“That doesn’t sound like your normal fair. Did Sweet Pea pick it out?” Betty asked. 

She forced a note of casualty into her voice. Ethyl wasn’t naive and she could certainly look after herself, but Betty was still wary about his sudden, constant presence. There was some protective streak in Betty about those friends who had stuck with her through high school. Ethyl had been the only friend besides Kevin who hadn’t wanted her to drop out and leave, and Ethyl was the only one who’d known firsthand the entirety of the Cooper family tragedy. She was the one who’d helped Betty dig herself out of the entire mess. 

And Betty would do anything she could to return that favor.

Jughead, though, was growing suspicious if his sharp look was anything to go by. His focus was entirely on her for the first time since she’d been hospitalized, and it was unnerving in more than one way. 

“He didn’t. Sweet Pea’s grandmother is running the show.”

Betty hummed and turned away to pick up the used oil pan. She kept her back to him as she walked towards the old disposal barrels. “That’s the second time I’ve heard about her. She makes wonderful soup. I take it he’s close to his family.”

“Very.”

Betty focused on the disposal barrier in front of her. “How’d you and Sweet Pea meet? Did you grow up together?”

Behind her, Jughead’s voice went flat. “Our fathers were friends. Are you writing a book on him?”

She straightened up and sighed at her failed investigation attempts. Most people, when asked, were more than happy to chatter on about the people in their lives. Doubly so when it came to talking about themselves. But this man was different. He was a closed book on a too high shelf. One that hid itself further into the bookcase the more you wanted to read it.

“I think Ethyl’s interested in him,” Betty said. She took the now empty pan back to the work bench. 

Jughead’s brows drew together. “Who the hell’s Ethyl?”

“My friend.” She meet his gave and stared back with as much confidence as she could muster. 

“You’re awfully curious for your friend.”

Betty cocked a hip and leaned against the bench. “Wouldn’t you be? After all, he seems just as interested in her.”

He scoffed and broke away from her stare. “He can handle himself. And I’m sure she can too. So why meddle in things between them.”

“I’m not trying to meddle, I’m just curious as to why -“

“Great morning, isn’t it?” Tom Keller’s voice rang out through the garage.

Betty had been so focused on the conversation, she hadn’t heard his old Chevy drive up. Tom came through the open door, hands full of coffee and his usual weekend kolaches. He walked up to Betty and held out the drink holder. She took one and murmured her thanks.

“Mr. Jones,” Tom nodded towards him, “glad to see you made it. Come into my office and we’ll talk.”

Jughead nodded at her, a brief polite goodbye, and walked after Tom.

Betty watched them and chewed on her lip. She had the beginning of an idea, but there were still bigger things to worry about. Like Ethyl and this new man of hers.   
She pulled out her phone and texted Ethyl. 

_‘Food festival today?’_


	3. A Food Festival, A Sabbatical, and A Disguise

A tantalizing smell permeated the air in Picken’s Park—fried breads, spices, roasting meats, caramelized onions. Various restaurants and chefs from the city had foods from all over the world for sale. A restaurant from the south of town served fish and chips, while another served lamb kebabs. There was a vegan food truck claiming their tofu chunks tasted just like chicken and dumplings across from a B.B.Q. truck whose alleged claim to fame was winning the state chili cook off three years in a row.

Even if Betty went home now, it still would have been a lovely, filling afternoon. The more they wandered, she wondered why she didn’t venture out to city events more often. 

As they passed another crepe stand, Betty dipped a latke, still hot from the oil, into a cup of applesauce and took a bite. The salt and sugar sent her taste buds into overdrive and she had to stop herself from eating the entire tray in two bites. An image of her grandmother pressing water from potatoes popped into her head, and Betty realized they tasted almost like the ones her grandmother made.

“Thanks for coming with me,” Ethel said with a large grin. 

Ethel held out a lamb kebab and Betty took it, her mouth watering in anticipation. She took a bite and relished the perfect balance between the garlic, peppercorn, and cumin.

“Thank you for inviting me. I didn’t realize so many restaurants participated.”

Ethel stole one Betty’s latkes and winked. “For someone who lives and breathes food I can’t believe it’s taken you this long to come out to the food festival.”

“Perils of the industry. I never know who wasn’t happy with one of my reviews,”

“Speaking of,” Ethel murmured. Her grin shifted into a shy smile and she waved at a dark-haired man hanging out of the window of a food truck. The smell of pork and vegetable oil grew as they walked closer. On the side of a truck someone had painted, “Lumpia y Empanadas - All proceeds to CIS (including tips)”.

“Told you they were big on community service,” Ethel said as Betty read the sign. “He told me they’ve been working this event since before Pop’s opened.”

There was no question as to who ‘he’ was. The minute Ethel caught his eye Sweet Pea’s scowl lifted on one side, his eyes brightening. He took a step back into the truck and said something to Fangs. Sweet Pea disappeared into the back of the truck only to reappear around the corner with a container filled with food.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” Sweet Pea said in greeting. 

He handed the basket to Ethel who took it with a blush on her cheeks. Betty didn’t miss how their hands lingered together for a second too long. 

Ethel tucked a curl behind her ear and clasped her hands in front of her. “I didn’t either, but Betty texted me this morning and said she wanted to go.”

Betty snagged an egg roll and nibbled on it while they talked. Unlike the eggrolls they’d found at an earlier booth, these didn’t have the sharp tang of used oil heated past it’s burn point. It was crisp and flaky, the light taste of oil barely noticeable. The pork and shrimp were balanced to compliment each other, both working to bring out the subtle flavors of the carrots and onion.

Sweet Pea suddenly turned to Betty, eyebrow raised. “Jones mentioned he ran into you earlier and you were grilling him. Didn’t know you were so interested in me.”

Betty swallowed a large piece of eggroll before she could finish chewing. She hacked and coughed as it scratched its way down her throat. The last thing she expected was for Jughead Jones to tell on her, with Sweet Pea calling her on it a close second.

Ethel shoved the basket back into Sweet Pea’s hands and pulled out the water bottle she’d stashed in her purse. Betty took it and drank deeply. Thankfully Ethel looked amused, far too used to Betty’s investigations. 

Sweet Pea, however, seemed anything but amused. “If you wanted to know, all you had to do was ask. You have my number.”

Betty glanced at Ethel, still rubbing her back. They’d grown up together and while they hadn’t always been friends, Ethel had always had her back, figuratively and literally in some cases. Their friendship had really solidified once they’d moved to the city, and Betty still couldn’t curb her protectiveness of the friends who’d been there for her.

“I didn’t want to scare you off,” Betty finally admitted.

Sweet Pea shrugged and glanced at the line that was slowly growing in front of his food truck. “Not my first rodeo. I’m well aware of what people tend to think about me.”

Betty shook her head, trying to find the right combination of words that could explain her wariness without having to tell the long dark story behind it. “No, that’s not why -”

“She’s just protective is all,” Ethel murmured. She squeezed Betty’s hand. “She does this to everyone Cheryl and I might be interested in.”

Betty shot her a thankful smile. Once again Ethel could put into words what Betty couldn’t. Sweet Pea looked as pleased as punch at Ethel’s admission. It might have been the first time Betty saw the man openly smiling. 

“Interested in, huh?” he asked.

Ethel blushed and turned her interest towards her shoes.

“Would she have any issues with me showing you around?” Sweet Pea asked. 

The question was meant for Ethel, but Betty could feel the lingering irritation. But whatever he might feel, Betty wouldn’t ever apologize for looking out for her friends.

Next to her, Ethel cleared her throat and shook her head. “I doubt she would, so long as you can show us where the best crepes are. With Nutella, preferably.”

Sweet Pea’s smile settled into a smirk, or maybe it was just a relaxed smile. Betty still didn’t have much of a grip on his personality. Or the quirks of his that seemed to keep cropping up. Whatever he might have looked like, he certainly wasn’t what she’d been expecting.

“Or, we can put her in charge of tips and wander around ourselves? I’m sure Jones would love to have you ‘critiquing’ his cooking today. What’s another lola in the kitchen?”

Betty ignored his minor jab. After all, Sweet Pea had been the one urging her to publish the article. 

“I didn’t think the whole restaurant would be working today. Ethel only mentioned you and Fangs were working today,” Betty said.

Sweet Pea stretched his neck to one side, and there was a pop. He rubbed under his eyes and yawned. “Yeah, well. Lola’s in charge today, and she likes Fangs better anyhow. And the other guys took the morning shift, so Jones’ gets to suck it up at the fryer.” 

He shifted his weight back on his heels and crossed his arms when Betty reached for another eggroll. 

“So what’s the verdict? Anything to say about those?”

Betty took another bite and let the flavor roll over her tongue. It was everything she could have ever asked for in home cooking. As an appetizer it wasn’t greasy and the taste of it kept her wanting more.

“Can I have the recipe?”

Sweet Pea chuckled and shook his head. “Lola won’t even give me the recipe. But, if you liked that you’ll definitely want to try the sliders a few trucks over.”

Like a dog to the sound of a cellophane bag, Jughead’s head poked out of the window. “Three all the way, two caveman extra dino, and a Plato, no Aristotle.”

Betty and Ethel glanced at each other, neither able to comprehend what he’d said. A spatula appeared in the window and popped Jughead on his arm. He disappeared and an elderly woman took his place. She spoke rapidly in Filipino and Sweet Pea nodded his understanding. 

“What if they’re out of fries?”

Sweet Pea’s lola, Betty assumed, raised an eyebrow that regardless of language told all three of them they’d better come back with fries. Before she walked away from the window, the woman pursed her lips and took a long look at Ethel. 

Fangs reappeared in the window to call out his own order. “Madonna, extra complex. And double up on the fries.”

Sweet Pea waved. He turned and walked back the way Betty and Ethel had come. 

“What was all that?” Ethel asked when she caught up to him. Her long legs made it easy enough for her to keep up, but Betty had to half-jog to keep from losing the pair in the crowd.

“You’ll see,” Sweet Pea promised.

They followed him to an out of the way trailer, a few old picnic tables set up next to it almost as an afterthought. It was quieter here. Off the regular path, there were fewer families here. Those who were in the area waved to Sweet Pea as they walked past.

When they arrived to the food truck, Sweet Pea walked to the far end of the truck. He slammed his fist against the door, and after a few moments an older man stepped out. As he caught sight of Sweet Pea his face lit up.

“Manny! You actually deigned to visit me this year!” He enveloped Sweet Pea in a bear hug, and to Betty’s surprise Sweet Pea hugged him back. “How are things?”

“As good as they can be.” Sweet Pea turned and gestured towards her. “Pop, this is Ethel and Betty. Ethel’s sweet, but I’d be careful around that one. She doesn’t hold her punches,” he said as he pointed at Betty.

Pop seemed overly pleased to meet them as they shook hands. 

“Are you the one the restaurant’s named after?” Ethel asked.

Pop’s smile threatened to outshine the sun beaming down on them. “I am. One of the proudest moments of my life was when these kids honored me like that.” He turned to Sweet Pea and in a stage whisper said, “You told me she was smart. You were right.”

Red crept up Sweet Pea’s neck and Betty had to bit her tongue to keep from cooing at him. He rubbed the back of his neck and purposefully avoiding looking at either of the two women. 

“Anyways, Jones wants his usual, no Aristotle this time. Fangs wants his usual, and lola’s been after those parmesan fries of yours for a while now. She still can’t figure out how you get them that crisp.”

Pop chuckled and opened the door to the trailer. “Old family secret. If I told her, that meant you’d know, and if you knew the whole damn city would know before sunfall.” He took the steps with the quickness of a man half his age, and the door slammed shut behind him.

“He seems nice,” Betty said in the lull that settled in Pop’s wake. 

Sweet Pea shrugged and crossed his arms. “Nicest guy I’ve ever meet. Taught all of us at the restaurant everything we know about cooking.”

Pop leaned out of the truck’s large window to place a basket of fries on the sil. “And that still isn’t enough to keep you out of trouble,” he said with a grin. 

“So what’s the deal with the burger names? I don’t see any menu,” Betty asked. 

She watched through the window as Pop moved through the makeshift kitchen. The space was entirely his own; he knew where everything was without needing to look. Every movement had been choreographed to a dance with an unheard tune.

“Pop’s specialty. You tell him the kind of burger you want, he comes up with something special just for you. Used to do it all the time back at the diner. And Pop never forgets an order.”

Ethel and Sweet Pea chatted while they waited. While Betty didn’t learn much more about Sweet Pea she did learn about Pop’s prep as she watched him move about the cramped space. Ingredients had been prepped beforehand, and everything that could be precooked was. Inside of five minutes there were five fully formed burgers and two more fries in the window.

In another four minutes, three more burgers, one basket of fries, and two baskets of sliders had been added to it. With the efficient orderliness of a well-trained waiter, Sweet Pea swept most of it into his arms leaving Betty and Ethel to carry two burgers each.

“See ya, Pop,” Sweet Pea called out as they left. 

“Anytime Manny. Nice to meet you girls,” Pop said with a tip of his white cap. He turned to a few other fair goers, lured in by smell of cooked onions and beef patties.

“Is Jughead really going to eat all of that?” Ethel asked as they joined the main thoroughfare. 

“He’s always had a big appetite,” Sweet Pea said. “You learn to eat when you can.”

Ethel and Betty exchanged glances. Sweet Pea didn’t mention anything else, and Betty’s curiosity yearned to follow up, but Ethel shook her head. Betty filed the information away along with the few other tidbits she’d learned about Sweet Pea.

When they returned, Sweet Pea lead them around to the back of the food truck where an old. The backdoor of the food truck flew open and there was what could only be called a stampede of two as Jughead and Fangs rushed to the table. Jughead picked up a burger and took a large bite out of it. He swept the other two burgers into one hand and headed back into the food truck without a word. Fangs grabbed his own burger and fries and disappeared into the crowd with a muttered thanks.

Sweet Pea sighed and picked up his and his lola’s orders. “Guess I’m back on window duty,” he muttered. He nodded to Betty and winked at Ethel before he turned to follow Jughead into the truck.

“Well, does he have your approval?” Ethel asked as they sat down at the table.

Betty nodded and picked up a slider. She knew her friend was more than capable of making her own decisions about people, and frankly she knew Ethel was better than Betty had ever been about reading people. But she still couldn’t shake off that edge of protectiveness towards people she cared about. 

“He seems normal enough. And he’s definitely interested in you. You don’t need my approval -”

“But it’s nice to have it,” Ethel interrupted. She bumped her shoulder against Betty’s. “After all, it’s what friends are for.”

Xxxx

Long after the festival goers had left, Jughead found himself sitting on a picnic table with Pop. Ever since they’d started working the annual event five years ago, it had been their tradition of sorts. A way for him to decompress and touch base with one of the men responsible for making sure Jughead didn’t end up like his father. 

It was nice to sit with Pop like this. Though Jughead’s every pore was clogged with grease, his hair dredged in flour, his clothes covered in questionable stains, and the scent of cooking oil following him about (Jughead was certain Hot Dog wouldn’t leave him alone for a week after today), he’d enjoyed working today. He’d been able to do what he loved best and in doing so he made people happy. Near the end of the day even Lola had seemed pleased with the eggrolls he’d made.

“I read the review,” Pop said.

Jughead’s shoulders tensed, and he waited for the disappointment. As if he sensed Jughead’s anticipation, Pop laid a hand on his shoulder. A dollop of guilt landed in Jughead’s stomach at the small gesture, further proof that the sins of his father ran deeper than he cared to admit.

“It could have been worse,” Pop said once Jughead wasad relaxed again. “But it seems like you’ve lost your love of cooking.”

Jughead shrugged his hand off and leaned forward against his knees. “It’s a job. It’s what I’m good at.”

“You used to be great at it.”

Jughead sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. Pop was right. Jughead was running through the motions at the restaurant, trying to keep too many balls in the air while the world around him kept turning. He’d known it for a while but knowing it and hearing it from someone he considered a mentor stung deep.

“That was before I had a restaurant to run. Before the bottom lines and quotas. Last year we weren’t making enough to pay the rent. And now,” he paused. 

When he agreed to open the restaurant, when Veronica had offered to underwrite it, all he’d wanted to do was make Pop proud. To make a difference. To help people get out of hopeless situations. And somewhere along the way, it had become just another job to pay the bills.

“Making really great food isn’t enough. It doesn’t bring in the crowds. We need to stay open or people won’t be able to eat,” Jughead said softly.

Pop was quiet a while, and Jughead picked at the cold fries in front of him. The conversation was a harsh reminder of what he missed the most about cooking. Before it was his refuge, the one thing he could relax and lose himself in. 

Now if he screwed up, if they lost business because of him, if people stopped coming, if the restaurant closed it was because of him. And because of him people wouldn’t be able to feed themselves or take care of their families. There were so many people relying on him, Toni, Fangs, and Sweet Pea to keep the restaurant running. 

There were so many times Jughead just wanted to throw in the towel. To give up on the whole thing. It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t be able to find something else. Construction was always hiring.

As if knowing his dilemma, Pop’s voice broke through his cloud of doubt.

“Cooking isn’t easy, even if you’ve been doing it for years. We both know that the hard way. People’s taste changes on a dime. Fad diets go from one extreme to another. And with   
the internet reviews and DIY’s I’d hate to try and make a go of it nowadays. 

“But you? You’ve got a drive for cooking. Never seen anyone take to dissecting what makes a dish work like you do. You’ve got something special, kid. Always have.”

Jughead ducked his head, pleased at the compliments from someone he’d always looked up to. Someone he’d never stopped trying to please. Someone who’d never let him down.

“If I’m any good at it, it’s because you took a chance on me. You’re the one who hired me after everything fell apart.”

Pop clapped his hand on Jughead’s back. “We all deserve second chances. We all did stupid things as teenagers, what really matters is whether we’ve learned from it. Whether we’ve changed. Besides, I should be thanking you. One of the best damn line cooks I ever had. I was proud when that Lodge girl swooped in and gave you your own restaurant.”

“I was terrified,” Jughead admitted. “I’ve never been so afraid of a stiletto heel before.”

Pop laughed, a deep belly laugh that brought a smile to Jughead’s face.

“Couldn’t tell from the way you bolted out that door. Thought you were going to were going to trip on those big dreams of yours.”

Jughead’s smile fell as a wave of guilt hit him. “I’d have never left if I knew the diner was going to close.”

Pop shook his head. This was a conversation they’d had many times before, and Jughead knew it was one they’d have many times more.

“Are you sure there isn’t anything we can do for you?” Jughead asked. “We could always use another maitre d. Or if you want to be in the kitchen Cottonmouth’s been wanting to move to the front for a while.”

Pop shook his head and leaned against the picnic table. He looked up to the stars, his voice wistful as he spoke. 

“I’m too old for that. Late nights and keeping all you kids in line made me grey long before my time.” He chuckled, lost in some unspoken memory. “I appreciate the offer, but I think it’s about time I finally hung up the apron for good. Rosie’s been trying to get me to move down south, someplace warmer. Georgia or Florida, maybe. Got grandkids down that way.”

Even though they weren’t related by blood, even though Pop didn’t owe him anything, Jughead still felt the sting of loss. This man had gladly taken him on as a line cook after the arrest. He’d been the one standing up for the unfair probation conditions, the one who’d made sure he graduated high school and made every probation appointment.

While it hadn’t hurt that Fred Andrews had vouched for him after he’d been released from juvie, somehow Jughead knew Pop would have hired him no matter what. The man was a soft touch even on his bad days. And yet it was largely because of this man that Jughead was here, and not in a jail cell rotting away like his father.

“Did I ever thank you, Pop? For keeping me in line?”

“Son, you’ve been thanking me everyday. If it meant that you got straight and out of trouble, I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.”

Jughead dropped his gaze to the table. “Thanks, Pop.”

Pop slung an arm over Jughead’s shoulders and pulled him into a half-hug.

“Anytime, son. Anytime.”

Xxxx

A loud smack rang out through the empty restaurant. Sweet Pea glanced up, expecting to find Jughead surly about something else in the newspaper. Instead he found their capital investor, Veronica Lodge, with her hands on her hips as she scanned the restaurant. 

“We need to talk about this. Where is he?”

Sweet Pea flipped the paper around and saw it was a copy of The Register from a few weeks ago. They’d known it was only a matter of time before the big boss found out about the review. The only question, though, had been when she’d deign to descend from her ivory tower to give them hell about it.

“It’s one review, Lodge. Go easy on him,” Sweet Pea said. 

“One review, maybe,” she said. She held up a finger as she paced the floor. “But a negative one. In the most popular paper in this city. One that everyone who’s anyone that falls within our target market reads.”

To Jughead’s misfortune, he took the opportunity to walk out of the kitchen onto the floor. Veronica spun on one high heel and stalked towards him before he could escape back into the safety of the kitchen. 

“And the review isn’t about the staff. It’s not about the location, the customers, or even the decor. Instead, it’s about the food. The backbone of this restaurant. The joy de vivre of any good eatery.”

Jughead crossed his arms, not impressed by Veronica’s ramp up to what Sweet Pea hoped was a major ass-chewing. Prepping the restaurant was boring business and he wasn’t going to miss this.

“And?”

“And I’m beginning to think you’ve lost your spark.” Veronica turned smartly on her heels and walked back to the bar. 

Jughead ran a hand down his face. “You talked to Pop.”

“I talked to Pop and we both agreed that something had to be done. Especially since the Michelin man is coming here in two months and I refuse to receive less than three stars.”

“Why’s the tire man coming in?” Fangs asked from the front.

Veronica let out a long suffering sigh, all too used to the peanut gallery that worked at Pop’s. Sweet Pea snickered, and Fangs winked at him. Even though she might sign their paychecks Veronica was still ‘The Man’ where they were concerned. 

“I swear if any of you even thinks the word ‘tire’ around him, let alone anything that might have to do with a vehicle, you will be out on the street before you can breath another word. No job prospects and no severance, unless you count your head from your body.” Veronica turned, hands sharp on her hips, to face Fangs. 

“And he’s coming in, Mr. Fogarty, because he owes Daddy a favor. And seeing as how Daddy dearest will be vacationing in Shankshaw for the foreseeable future I doubt he’ll mind if I call it in.”

Sweet Pea grimaced. Hiram Lodge’s name was toxic enough on its own in this town. Just the mention of he-who-will-not-be-named didn’t bode well for anyone listening unless it came from a prosecutor's mouth. Veronica herself had long since cut personal ties from her father and his ‘associates’, but she quickly learned it hadn’t been so easy to give up the Lodge name and all the doors it opened for her. It was the one asset that was too valuable on its own, especially if she wanted to keep the wolves from her growing cabal of businesses.

“So what does that mean for the rest of us? Martha Stewart lessons on how to butter toast and cook the books until Jones finally learns the difference between aioli and mayonnaise?” Sweet Pea asked. 

Veronica shot him a sharp look, unhappy about his dig about the crime that sent her father to jail, and resumed pacing the floor. 

“What that means, Mr. Ocampo, is that the rest of us will have to pick up the slack in the kitchen while someone,” she turned sharply to face Jughead, “goes out into the world on a forced sabbatical to rekindle that fire of his.”

A clamor rang out among the staff as they all argued against Veronica’s order. The loudest of all was Jughead’s yelp of surprise. To Sweet Pea’s knowledge, this restaurant was Jones’ mother, wife, and child, and he hadn’t been away from it for more than three days to recover from a nasty cold last year.

Veronica let them continue for a minute, her eyes sharp as she watched who was complaining the loudest. Then she stuck her fingers into her mouth and let go an ear splitting whistle. When it was quiet again she spoke.

“We will be hiring temporary staff until the Michelin review. If you know of anyone looking for work, please encourage them to submit their application.”

That did little to quell the staff’s irritation. Though most were capable of covering the kitchen in a pinch, there was something so bone deep wrong about one of their own being cut from the herd like this by someone like Veronica Lodge. Murmurs continued as Veronica went through the rest of the basic business decisions that required her presence - signing checks, approving changes, and checking over the ledgers. 

Throughout the afternoon Sweet Pea’s scowl was largely ignored as Veronica shuffled through the papers in front of her. Even when he set a dirty martini in front of her, she never lifted her head. Eventually he ran out of glasses to clean, so he settled for the next best thing that would allow him to scowl at the heiress. Cleaning the tap lines, loudly and messily, right next to her. 

And still she didn’t budge. It wasn’t until Jughead took the bar stool next to her that she looked up. Sweet Pea slid a glass of cranberry juice towards him and hovered close enough to listen. 

“Veronica, whatever it is you’re planning -” Jughead started.

She held up a perfectly manicured hand. “I know what you’re going to say, Bobby Flay, but this is for the best. This B. Coop is absolutely correct in their assessment. You’ve been on autopilot the last year, and that’s not going to fly if we want this restaurant to be on track for the next three years. The last time Archie-kins and I ate here -”

“He ordered seconds of the pickled herring,” Jughead snapped. “And there’s enough regulars who come in. That review changed nothing about the numbers.”

Veronica pinched the bridge of her nose. “God I wish you didn’t serve that fish. His breath was rancid for a week,” she muttered under her breath. “Argue all you want, but it won’t change the fact that there is nothing here at Pop’s to separate it from any other restaurant.”

Jughead opened his mouth, but Veronica quickly cut him off. “Something other than pickled herring. Something normal people eat.”

She set a hand on his arm and squeezed it, an overly affectionate move between the two clashing personalities. “I realize that the review is a huge blow to that oversized ego of yours, but don’t think of this as a bad thing. Think of your time off as if you’re trying to find your blue period.”

“Somehow I doubt I can make a menu out of blueberries, blue cheese, and blue corn,” Jughead muttered.

Veronica raised an eyebrow. “You used to take that as a challenge.”

He scowled and slid further down into his seat. 

Veronica sighed. “Look, why don’t you take the weekend and relax. Do some reading, take a pottery class, get a massage. And then try coming up with a new dish. Or cook something out of your comfort zone. I hear Sweet Pea’s grandmother makes excellent egg rolls. Maybe she could teach you a thing or two.”

“Speaking of lola, it’s slow down at the shelter,” Sweet Pea said as he set down a fresh martini. “I’m sure she’d be happy to take some time off and fill in for him next month.”

“No one’s getting in on nepotism. She’ll have to fill out an application same as everyone else,” Veronica said. She picked up her stack of papers and knocked them against the bartop to right them. “Though a sample of her coconut soup would help prove she’s the right fit for the position.”

Jughead leaned back in the chair, arms crossed. Sweet Pea knew the look wel. it was one Jones’ wore whenever he had to let someone go. The man took his employee’s welfare to heart in a way that even Sweet Pea thought was reckless. And he’d grown up with most of them.

“Think about it. For me and for Pop,” Veronica said. She shifted to lean against the bar, fully facing Jughead. “We’re both worried about you. We know how much cooking means to you, how much this restaurant means to you. But we don’t want to see you burnout under monotony.”

He sighed and ran a hand down his face. “I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t worry, boss. We’ll take care of things while you’re gone,” Fangs said as he walked past with a basket full of rolled silverware. “Everyone will be talking about Pop’s.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Jughead muttered. 

xxxxxx

“One o’clock today, just booked,” Ethel said first thing Monday morning. She held out a stack of mail, mostly bills, as Betty walked past.

Confused, Betty paused. She hadn’t had an appointment when she’d left her apartment. And Ethel never failed to book a meeting.

“With who?”

“A Monica Posh,” Ethel replied. “She was very secretive on the phone about why she wanted to come in. I told her you weren’t taking appointments, but she was very insistent. And I’m almost certain she was using a fake accent. I don’t think Russians call people ‘mate’.”

Betty frowned. She didn’t recall meeting a Monica Posh, nor did she recall doing anything lately that lead a stranger to insist on speaking with her. By the time lunch rolled around Betty still hadn’t found much out about Monica Posh despite her Sleuthing. The only information of note had come from an article written ten years ago about a speakeasy forced to close due to zoning issues. One Monica Posh had been arrested for protesting and vandalizing a government office over it, but despite the scandalous headline there had been nothing further available. 

Exactly at one o’clock, a woman dressed all in black and a very blonde, very fake looking, wig walked through Betty’s office door. The woman was dressed as if she were on her way to a fashion show and Betty fought to keep from straightening her own sensible cardigan.

“Ms. Posh. It’s nice to meet you.” Betty stood and extended her arm. “What brings you here today?”

Monica took her hand with a limp grasp and gracefully fell into the chair across from Betty’s desk. When she spoke there was no trace of accent, and Betty wondered if Ethel had been having her on.

“Look, B. Can I call you B?” 

Before Betty could nod, the woman had already moved on. 

“I read your latest article regarding a certain restaurant, and while there’s absolutely no doubt in your talent as a writer or critic, I do have a vested interest in making sure this restaurant does well.”

Betty narrowed her eyes. She already suspected which restaurant was in question, but that left her with a question of her own. Why were so many people interested in Pop’s?

Monica sighed heavily, an overly dramatic thing, and leaned forward to rest her forearm against Betty’s desk. “All I’m asking is that you give it another chance in a few weeks time. I understand you didn’t have the best experience your first time there -”

Or the second time, Betty thought. She pulled open her desk drawer while Monica spoke to make sure her EpiPen was still safely tucked away. 

“-but I’d like the chance to showcase Pop’s exceptional cuisine to this city. We’ve taken your review under advisement and as we speak our head chef is diligently rethinking the menu.”

Betty shifted in her seat, guilt gnawing at her over the unmade reservation. As much as she wanted to tell this woman no, as much as she wanted to live the rest of her life not even thinking about Pop’s or it’s employees, she felt as if she owed something to them to make up for her untruthful words. Try as she might Betty could not channel her inner Cheryl.

“In all honesty, the article was written as truthfully as possible based on the facts in front of me at that time -”

“As one might expect from a paper of your caliber.”

“-but certain events were brought to light afterwards that called into question certain aspects of the article.”

Monica raised an eyebrow. A sly shadow of a grin crossed her face and she raised a hand to cover it up. Betty never felt so much like a frumpy, wrinkled mouse caught in an elaborately silver-plated mouse trap as she did now.

“Do tell.”

To keep her composure as a dignified businesswoman unburdened by useless things like guilt or anxiety, Betty leaned forward and clasped her hands together. Truth and honesty had always been two creeds she tried to live by, but that didn’t mean they were easy to follow. Especially when it meant admitting to an error on her part.

“I’ll admit that part of my review had been colored by the fact that I was under the assumption that a reservation had been dropped. But it came to light last week that I didn’t actually have a reservation at Pop’s, and despite that the staff still did their part to make my experience pleasant.”

“They’ll be so glad to hear it. Losing the reservation was a point of pride for Fangs. He’s very particular about that sort of thing.”

Betty winced. While she hadn’t spent much time around him she’d taken a liking to the quiet man. “Please let him know I really am sorry about that.”

Monica draped herself back in the chair. Her wig slipped just enough for Betty to see dark hair underneath. 

“Does that mean a second review isn’t out of the question? Not now, of course. I’d hate for your publication to lose face over two opposing reviews published so close together. But perhaps in two month’s time you’d be available?”

Betty chewed on her lip. The Register had never run a follow up review before. The experiences in low rated restaurants had been so bad - clowns throwing deserts at customers, lobster escapes, and knife juggling being a few of the highlights - there was never a thought in anyone’s mind about the quality of the restaurant. But it might not be a bad look to have a second go. The food had been above average and the bar and the service had been on par with some of the older, more established restaurants in the area.

Given the evidence that Cheryl hadn’t made a reservation, and the fact Pop’s didn’t seem like just a job for its employees, it might not be a bad look for the paper to give it a second shot. And Dilton had been pushing to include more personal interest stories, citing some Ceiling Road Journal article about people wanting human connection in a more digital age. It might be worth writing if it meant Dilton spoke five minutes instead of his usual thirty five.

“While I can’t agree without running it by the managing editor first, I’m not personally opposed to it.”

Monica clapped her hands together. “I knew we could make this work.” 

She slipped a business card out of her purse, identical to Cheryl’s new Louise Ritton handbag. 

Betty took it and turned it over. ‘Lodge’ was inlaid in gold font on one side, on the other was only a phone number. 

“That’s my personal number,” Monica said. “Please let me know the minute you find out if you’ll be re-reviewing us. I’d stay and chat, but there’s always another meeting somewhere.”

The strange woman stood and held her hand out once more, and Betty felt as if she were the one being dismissed in her own office. Monica sashayed her way out of the office. 

Betty turned the card over once more, already looking at all the angles laid out before her. It would be difficult to convince Cheryl of a second review, but for the first time Betty was truly curious to see if the restaurant could live up to its promise. Monica Posh herself was certainly an alibi, which lead to even more questions as to why she’d had a business card with one of the more famous criminals the city had ever produced. 

It was all strange enough to catch her attention. 

Still staring at the card, Betty picked up the phone and dialed Ethel. “When’s the next monthly meeting?”

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks for beta-ing this Sullypants! I greatly appreciate it!


End file.
